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Kuroda Studies in East Asian Buddhism #22
How Zen Became Zen: The Dispute Over Enlightenment and the Formation of Chan Buddhism in Song-Dynasty China
How Zen Became Zen takes a novel approach to understanding one of the most crucial developments in Zen Buddhism: the dispute over the nature of enlightenment that erupted within the Chinese Chan (Zen) school in the twelfth century. The famous Linji (Rinzai) Chan master Dahui Zonggao (1089-1163) railed against "heretical silent illumination Chan" and strongly advocated kanhua (kōan) meditation as an antidote. In this fascinating study, Morten Schlūtter shows that Dahui's target was the Caodong (Sōtō) Chan tradition that had been revived and reinvented in the early twelfth century, and that silent meditation was an approach to practice and enlightenment that originated within this "new" Chan tradition. Schlūtter has written a refreshingly accessible account of the intricacies of the dispute, which is still reverberating through modern Zen in both Asia and the West. Dahui and his opponents' arguments for their respective positions come across in this book in as earnest and relevant a manner as they must have seemed almost nine hundred years ago. Although much of the book is devoted to illuminating the doctrinal and soteriological issues behind the enlightenment dispute, Schlūtter makes the case that the dispute must be understood in the context of government policies toward Buddhism, economic factors, and social changes. He analyzes the remarkable ascent of Chan during the first centuries of the Song dynasty, when it became the dominant form of elite monastic Buddhism, and demonstrates that secular educated elites came to control the critical transmission from master to disciple ("procreation" as Schlūtter terms it) in the Chan School.
304 pages, Hardcover
First published July 1, 2008
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Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews
February 28, 2013
In the last thirty or so years, scholars of Chán 禪 (Zen) Buddhism, such as John McRae, have demonstrated that our understanding of Chán in the Táng 唐 dynasty (618-907) is in fact a later, Sòng 宋 dynasty (960-1279) construction. We have no direct access, but only the mediation of biased hagiographers and polemicists. Thanks to these researches, Chán of the Táng is a “ known unknown” – we understand our own ignorance of it.
In How Zen Became Zen, Morten Schlütter focuses on the obvious follow-up question: what, then, was Chán in the Sòng like, and how did we come to have our current understanding of Chán? To Schlütter, the crucial turning point is the twelfth century, and the growth of sectarianism, best known in the attacks of Dàhuì Zōnggǎo 大慧宗杲 (1089-1163) on Fūróng Dàokǎi 芙蓉道楷 (1043-1118). Dàhuì, a leader of the Línjì 臨濟 sect, emphasized the importance of kànhuà 看話 practice, in which one meditates on the key phrase of an encounter dialogue (gōngàn 公案, generally known in English by its Japanese name, kōan). Dàhuì, in addresses to lay practitioners, emphasized that kànhuà was the only way to enlightenment, and contrasted this method with the “silent illumination” (mòzhào 默照) advocated by Dàokǎi and others in the Cáodòng 曹洞 sect, which he claimed was useless.
Schlütter’s stated aim is to understand this sectarian dispute. He does not see it primarily as doctrinal hair-splitting, but the result of larger social forces which developed throughout the Sòng dynasty. Therefore, the majority of the book provides a social history of Chán Buddhism from beginning of the Sòng through the twelfth century, focusing especially on state policies toward Buddhism and elite patronage of various monks and monasteries. The rise of Chán, for example, he attributes to government’s effort to make monasteries public (shífāng 十方), in which abbots are subject to official appointment. By the end of the eleventh century, as power became more localized, monasteries depended on the patronage of local elites for their survival, and therefore monks had to make an effort to appeal to these patrons. One of the ways of doing this was to compose and disseminate transmission histories and other types of literature
Schlütter also notes how Cáodòng had nearly died out, and was then revived in the late eleventh century. This posed a threat to the well-established Línjì sect, potentially usurping patrons, and so Línjì leaders like Dàhuì responded by attacking the Cáodòng lineage. These attacks mischaracterized Cáodòng’s “silent illumination” to some degree, and heightened the differences between the two. This led to an increasing sense of sectarianism, which became codified in later times as the “five traditions” of Chán, and which survives in Japanese Zen to this day.
How Zen Became Zen appears to have been well-received, praised in scholarly journals, and this is justly so. Schlütter contextualizes a doctrinal dispute through social history. While his goals are similar to, say, Peter Gregory in Tsung-mi and the Sinification of Buddhism, he draws on a wider range of source material, such as government manuals, official histories, commemorative inscriptions, funerary inscriptions, essay collections, travel descriptions, and private letters, as well as typical “Buddhist” sources like the Canon. He also explicitly states in the Introduction that his focus on the elite is necessarily limited, and that a neat distinction between elite and popular religion doesn’t hold: one of the reasons the state was interested in promoting Buddhism, for example, was to generate spiritual power. Schlütter also writes very clearly, explicitly stating his thesis, summarizing his conclusions, and explaining jargon.
Because he covers his bases so well (giving nods to the importance of popular religion, Daoism, Neo-Confucianism, print culture, the role of women, etc.), it’s hard to criticize Schlütter’s work outright. The book’s catchy title, How Zen Became Zen, implies a longer historical scope, from the Táng up through the twentieth century, but I suspect the title was an editorial decision with University of Hawai’i Press. I could also wish for more emphasis on the literary qualities of Chán writings in the Sòng, but to do so would be to wish for a different book.
Perhaps the one strong criticism I would give the book is that it shares the assumptions of all social history: that historical events are explainable through larger power structures, such as governments, religious institutions, etc. While these are, of course, important, social histories downplay individual actors, and tend toward historical determinism. The possibility of authentic religious experience, too, has no place in such a framework. All texts, be they polemical, instructive, literary, or otherwise, can be understood in terms of larger social forces. A monk writes a text on meditation for the laity in order to attract followers and ensure that his teaching survives – nothing is said of whether or not the monk genuinely believes he is helping his followers, or whether the followers genuinely believe they are being helped by the monk. Such speculation as to people’s authentic interests, I suppose, is beyond the reach of historical inquiry, but it is an important factor in why people adhere to various ethical and spiritual teachings. To deny it at the outset is to lose something essential, if ineffable.
Nonetheless, Schlütter’s work succeeds in everything it sets out to do, and should prove to be a touchstone for scholars of Sòng history and Chinese religion alike.
In How Zen Became Zen, Morten Schlütter focuses on the obvious follow-up question: what, then, was Chán in the Sòng like, and how did we come to have our current understanding of Chán? To Schlütter, the crucial turning point is the twelfth century, and the growth of sectarianism, best known in the attacks of Dàhuì Zōnggǎo 大慧宗杲 (1089-1163) on Fūróng Dàokǎi 芙蓉道楷 (1043-1118). Dàhuì, a leader of the Línjì 臨濟 sect, emphasized the importance of kànhuà 看話 practice, in which one meditates on the key phrase of an encounter dialogue (gōngàn 公案, generally known in English by its Japanese name, kōan). Dàhuì, in addresses to lay practitioners, emphasized that kànhuà was the only way to enlightenment, and contrasted this method with the “silent illumination” (mòzhào 默照) advocated by Dàokǎi and others in the Cáodòng 曹洞 sect, which he claimed was useless.
Schlütter’s stated aim is to understand this sectarian dispute. He does not see it primarily as doctrinal hair-splitting, but the result of larger social forces which developed throughout the Sòng dynasty. Therefore, the majority of the book provides a social history of Chán Buddhism from beginning of the Sòng through the twelfth century, focusing especially on state policies toward Buddhism and elite patronage of various monks and monasteries. The rise of Chán, for example, he attributes to government’s effort to make monasteries public (shífāng 十方), in which abbots are subject to official appointment. By the end of the eleventh century, as power became more localized, monasteries depended on the patronage of local elites for their survival, and therefore monks had to make an effort to appeal to these patrons. One of the ways of doing this was to compose and disseminate transmission histories and other types of literature
Schlütter also notes how Cáodòng had nearly died out, and was then revived in the late eleventh century. This posed a threat to the well-established Línjì sect, potentially usurping patrons, and so Línjì leaders like Dàhuì responded by attacking the Cáodòng lineage. These attacks mischaracterized Cáodòng’s “silent illumination” to some degree, and heightened the differences between the two. This led to an increasing sense of sectarianism, which became codified in later times as the “five traditions” of Chán, and which survives in Japanese Zen to this day.
How Zen Became Zen appears to have been well-received, praised in scholarly journals, and this is justly so. Schlütter contextualizes a doctrinal dispute through social history. While his goals are similar to, say, Peter Gregory in Tsung-mi and the Sinification of Buddhism, he draws on a wider range of source material, such as government manuals, official histories, commemorative inscriptions, funerary inscriptions, essay collections, travel descriptions, and private letters, as well as typical “Buddhist” sources like the Canon. He also explicitly states in the Introduction that his focus on the elite is necessarily limited, and that a neat distinction between elite and popular religion doesn’t hold: one of the reasons the state was interested in promoting Buddhism, for example, was to generate spiritual power. Schlütter also writes very clearly, explicitly stating his thesis, summarizing his conclusions, and explaining jargon.
Because he covers his bases so well (giving nods to the importance of popular religion, Daoism, Neo-Confucianism, print culture, the role of women, etc.), it’s hard to criticize Schlütter’s work outright. The book’s catchy title, How Zen Became Zen, implies a longer historical scope, from the Táng up through the twentieth century, but I suspect the title was an editorial decision with University of Hawai’i Press. I could also wish for more emphasis on the literary qualities of Chán writings in the Sòng, but to do so would be to wish for a different book.
Perhaps the one strong criticism I would give the book is that it shares the assumptions of all social history: that historical events are explainable through larger power structures, such as governments, religious institutions, etc. While these are, of course, important, social histories downplay individual actors, and tend toward historical determinism. The possibility of authentic religious experience, too, has no place in such a framework. All texts, be they polemical, instructive, literary, or otherwise, can be understood in terms of larger social forces. A monk writes a text on meditation for the laity in order to attract followers and ensure that his teaching survives – nothing is said of whether or not the monk genuinely believes he is helping his followers, or whether the followers genuinely believe they are being helped by the monk. Such speculation as to people’s authentic interests, I suppose, is beyond the reach of historical inquiry, but it is an important factor in why people adhere to various ethical and spiritual teachings. To deny it at the outset is to lose something essential, if ineffable.
Nonetheless, Schlütter’s work succeeds in everything it sets out to do, and should prove to be a touchstone for scholars of Sòng history and Chinese religion alike.
August 1, 2023
Only for the historically-minded Zen practitioner
The title, “How Zen Became Zen”, is a bit of a reach. This is an academic study of Chan Buddhism (the Chinese precursor of Japanese Zen) during the Song Dynasty (960-1279). I found it fascinating in parts, but it also gets heavily into the weeds. This is no broad-brush, populist survey; Schlutter seeks to carefully support every claim with specific documentation, including supporting evidence if possible. So, at times, it is like wading through treacle.
That said, I came away with a good sense of Chan Buddhism as it developed in China in the centuries before the visit of the Japanese monk, Dogen (1200-1253) who, having studied Chan, returned to establish Soto Zen in Japan.
Institutional set-up of Chan
Schlutter provides a wealth of information on the functioning of Chan Buddhism. A quick summary might run as follows. Chan monasteries were divided between “hereditary” and “public”. In the former, the abbot, monks, and nuns owned the rights to the monastery and its assets. They chose their own abbot and were largely independent of the state. Schlutter’s focus is more on public monasteries, which had a stronger link to the Song state. They included the largest, most prestigious monasteries, which received public grants of money, land, and other assets, and were sometimes charged with supporting the state and emperor (by holding prayers for the government, maintaining dynastic tombs, etc.) The overall number of monasteries was astonishing. Schlutter notes that in 1059, there were 39,000 registered Buddhist monasteries under the Song dynasty, though presumably only a fraction were in the Chan lineage.
The Chan abbots of public monasteries were, in principle, chosen by a process designed to ensure high-quality leadership. A nomination was made by important abbots in neighboring monasteries and local leaders, while the state had ultimate authority to approve the choice. Over time, however, the state often played a dominant role, directly appointing abbots to the most prestigious monasteries. The selection was also influenced by the secular elite outside the government, who Schlutter describes as the “literati”. These lay people were not typically Chan practitioners but followed the artistic and poetic aspects of Chan Buddhism.
For Chan Buddhism, establishing and maintaining a healthy line of succession was critical. Abbots were members of a transmission family that ostensibly traced its inheritance back to the historical Buddha. When a Chan master conferred Dharma transmission on his heir, the implication was that the latter now embodied the same level of enlightenment achieved by the historical Buddha, and could pass this on, in turn, to his heirs. (The masculine pronoun is used throughout as Dharma transmission was entirely through male abbots and their monk students.)
Zen monasteries could be very large. Schlutter notes that the largest at one time had 2,000 monks, while a couple others had 1,000 monks each. (Presumably most were much smaller.) Not all monks had aspirations to join the Chan line of succession. Abbots appear to have looked for future leaders among the sons of the elite, i.e., sons of the literati and of government officials. One imagines that the monasteries had an implicit class structure, with an ambitious elite and a large class of monks drawn from the lower classes who expected nothing more than a lifetime of basic religious practice.
Chan abbots (masters) were responsible for bringing promising students to enlightenment. This was achieved under a regime of ritualized lectures, meetings with the master on an established schedule, and meditation. The process of bringing students to enlightenment was an uncertain one, and seems to have depended, in part, on the charisma of the master as well as the particular mode of religious enquiry that he demanded of his students. One Chan master is credited with having brought 13 people to enlightenment over just a few weeks, while another complained that several hundred monks had been pursuing a sort of koan practice over the summer but none had been enlightened.
Once a student reached enlightenment, he was recognized as the dharma heir of his master. However, he did not fully enter into the Chan line of dharma succession until promoted to the position of abbot in a new monastery. Dharma transmission only occurred after monks rose to the status of abbot; prior to this, even the approved dharma heirs of a Chan master could not transmit the dharma in their own name. Being a dharma heir was not sufficient for promotion, however. A promising Chan student would possibly need to spend decades learning the administrative aspects of running a monastery. Given the rare combination of religious aspiration, personal charisma, and administrative talent required to become abbot and maintain the Chan lineage, there appears to have been keen competition between Chan masters for the most promising students.
Quarrels over Chan teaching styles
The practices adopted by Chan masters for encouraging enlightenment varied. Some focused on pressing their students to interpret “gongan” stories, which were accounts of historic debates between Chan masters and their students that had led to enlightenment. After struggling to understand these paradoxical accounts, students would sometimes break through to intuitive understanding in a moment of sudden enlightenment. Schlutter also focuses on the Chan master Dahui Zonggao (1089-1163) who urged his students to put aside the gongan story as a whole, and instead fiercely concentrate on the “punch line”, such as the “Mu” answer to the koan “Does a dog have Buddha nature?” Other masters, notably Hongzhi Zhengju (1091-1157) and Zhenxie Qingliao (1088-1151), followed a “silent illumination” approach that emphasized the attainment of deep states of mental calm through extended meditation and downplayed the importance of pursuing enlightenment.
Schlutter discusses in detail the internal dispute that emerged in the Chan family between Dahui and those he accused of perverting Chan through silent illumination practices. This is “inside-baseball” for all but the most curious Zen practitioners. However, I found it interesting that this sort of dispute had also occurred during the highpoint of the Chan lineage during the Tang dynasty (618-907). The same distinctions between types of practice also emerged, of course, in Japan. Dogen’s Soto school of Zen is seen as continuing the silent illumination style of Chan while Rinzai follows the Chan approach exemplified by Dahui.
Overall, an informative book, but its dense, meticulous academic style will limit its appeal. Five stars for academic ambition; four for personal interest; three for readability.
The title, “How Zen Became Zen”, is a bit of a reach. This is an academic study of Chan Buddhism (the Chinese precursor of Japanese Zen) during the Song Dynasty (960-1279). I found it fascinating in parts, but it also gets heavily into the weeds. This is no broad-brush, populist survey; Schlutter seeks to carefully support every claim with specific documentation, including supporting evidence if possible. So, at times, it is like wading through treacle.
That said, I came away with a good sense of Chan Buddhism as it developed in China in the centuries before the visit of the Japanese monk, Dogen (1200-1253) who, having studied Chan, returned to establish Soto Zen in Japan.
Institutional set-up of Chan
Schlutter provides a wealth of information on the functioning of Chan Buddhism. A quick summary might run as follows. Chan monasteries were divided between “hereditary” and “public”. In the former, the abbot, monks, and nuns owned the rights to the monastery and its assets. They chose their own abbot and were largely independent of the state. Schlutter’s focus is more on public monasteries, which had a stronger link to the Song state. They included the largest, most prestigious monasteries, which received public grants of money, land, and other assets, and were sometimes charged with supporting the state and emperor (by holding prayers for the government, maintaining dynastic tombs, etc.) The overall number of monasteries was astonishing. Schlutter notes that in 1059, there were 39,000 registered Buddhist monasteries under the Song dynasty, though presumably only a fraction were in the Chan lineage.
The Chan abbots of public monasteries were, in principle, chosen by a process designed to ensure high-quality leadership. A nomination was made by important abbots in neighboring monasteries and local leaders, while the state had ultimate authority to approve the choice. Over time, however, the state often played a dominant role, directly appointing abbots to the most prestigious monasteries. The selection was also influenced by the secular elite outside the government, who Schlutter describes as the “literati”. These lay people were not typically Chan practitioners but followed the artistic and poetic aspects of Chan Buddhism.
For Chan Buddhism, establishing and maintaining a healthy line of succession was critical. Abbots were members of a transmission family that ostensibly traced its inheritance back to the historical Buddha. When a Chan master conferred Dharma transmission on his heir, the implication was that the latter now embodied the same level of enlightenment achieved by the historical Buddha, and could pass this on, in turn, to his heirs. (The masculine pronoun is used throughout as Dharma transmission was entirely through male abbots and their monk students.)
Zen monasteries could be very large. Schlutter notes that the largest at one time had 2,000 monks, while a couple others had 1,000 monks each. (Presumably most were much smaller.) Not all monks had aspirations to join the Chan line of succession. Abbots appear to have looked for future leaders among the sons of the elite, i.e., sons of the literati and of government officials. One imagines that the monasteries had an implicit class structure, with an ambitious elite and a large class of monks drawn from the lower classes who expected nothing more than a lifetime of basic religious practice.
Chan abbots (masters) were responsible for bringing promising students to enlightenment. This was achieved under a regime of ritualized lectures, meetings with the master on an established schedule, and meditation. The process of bringing students to enlightenment was an uncertain one, and seems to have depended, in part, on the charisma of the master as well as the particular mode of religious enquiry that he demanded of his students. One Chan master is credited with having brought 13 people to enlightenment over just a few weeks, while another complained that several hundred monks had been pursuing a sort of koan practice over the summer but none had been enlightened.
Once a student reached enlightenment, he was recognized as the dharma heir of his master. However, he did not fully enter into the Chan line of dharma succession until promoted to the position of abbot in a new monastery. Dharma transmission only occurred after monks rose to the status of abbot; prior to this, even the approved dharma heirs of a Chan master could not transmit the dharma in their own name. Being a dharma heir was not sufficient for promotion, however. A promising Chan student would possibly need to spend decades learning the administrative aspects of running a monastery. Given the rare combination of religious aspiration, personal charisma, and administrative talent required to become abbot and maintain the Chan lineage, there appears to have been keen competition between Chan masters for the most promising students.
Quarrels over Chan teaching styles
The practices adopted by Chan masters for encouraging enlightenment varied. Some focused on pressing their students to interpret “gongan” stories, which were accounts of historic debates between Chan masters and their students that had led to enlightenment. After struggling to understand these paradoxical accounts, students would sometimes break through to intuitive understanding in a moment of sudden enlightenment. Schlutter also focuses on the Chan master Dahui Zonggao (1089-1163) who urged his students to put aside the gongan story as a whole, and instead fiercely concentrate on the “punch line”, such as the “Mu” answer to the koan “Does a dog have Buddha nature?” Other masters, notably Hongzhi Zhengju (1091-1157) and Zhenxie Qingliao (1088-1151), followed a “silent illumination” approach that emphasized the attainment of deep states of mental calm through extended meditation and downplayed the importance of pursuing enlightenment.
Schlutter discusses in detail the internal dispute that emerged in the Chan family between Dahui and those he accused of perverting Chan through silent illumination practices. This is “inside-baseball” for all but the most curious Zen practitioners. However, I found it interesting that this sort of dispute had also occurred during the highpoint of the Chan lineage during the Tang dynasty (618-907). The same distinctions between types of practice also emerged, of course, in Japan. Dogen’s Soto school of Zen is seen as continuing the silent illumination style of Chan while Rinzai follows the Chan approach exemplified by Dahui.
Overall, an informative book, but its dense, meticulous academic style will limit its appeal. Five stars for academic ambition; four for personal interest; three for readability.
August 27, 2008
A primer on one aspect of Song Dynasty Chan.
April 20, 2013
Excellent.
July 14, 2022
This book gives a good amount of context on Zen. Particularly interesting, are the chapters elaborating on the Doctrinal disputes between Linji and Caodong (equivalent to the rinzai and soto schools), through the perspectives of Dahui Zonggao and Hongzhi, two men that are respectively very significant representatives of these schools.
Additionally, the economic and political realities of Zen are talked of in a way that's very informative.
This book is pretty coherent without previous familiarity of the figures discussed, but obviously this is pretty academic take that assumes certain understandings
Additionally, the economic and political realities of Zen are talked of in a way that's very informative.
This book is pretty coherent without previous familiarity of the figures discussed, but obviously this is pretty academic take that assumes certain understandings
Displaying 1 - 5 of 5 reviews